The Butterflies

The butterflies are dying
as they eat the corn
that we have made
altered by our humane
science: we know not what
we do
playing God with this
world's food that is 
not ours to harm -
such tampering
to satisfy our own
unbalances the ancient
laws -
thus we cannot cry or grieve
when we begin to starve
for the poison seeping
in our soil
we put there
and in so doing
dug our own graves
and all the bright butterflies -
the cabbage whites, the red
admirals, the blues the greens -
spin and sway
as lightly they
stagger from the air
to twitch on our dry
earth that we have
left barren of all worth
their wings are veined
and colourless
their one bright day
has waned and passed
emblem of our loss -
we have spoiled
our genes
and all our world is
harmed by our own hands.
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